


to call a queen a princess

by idles



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Slow Burn, bellamy blake??? nice?? what is this????, criminology major!bellamy, heart 2 heart!bellamy, i am such bellarke trash, wait but the bell/clarke/raven tag does not insinuate a ménage-à-trois, wow this is astounding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-17
Updated: 2015-05-17
Packaged: 2018-03-30 23:02:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3955237
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idles/pseuds/idles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>or, the "AU HC WHERE RAVEN AND CLARKE GO CLUBBING AND BELL'S JUST CHILLIN BY THE BAR AND HE SEES RAVEN SEXY DANCING AND HE'S SO ATTRACTED BUT WHEN HE HEADS OVER SHE THROWS UP ON HIS SHOES AND PASSES OUT SO BEING A GENTLEMAN HE HELPS CLARKE TAKE RAVEN HOME AND THEY TALK AND CLICK INSTANTLY AND IT'S A SLOW BURN FRIEND-TO-LOVER RELATIONSHIP SUE ME" for commmanderblake</p>
            </blockquote>





	to call a queen a princess

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> in which Bellamy's entranced by the way Raven moves and somehow ends up talking all night with Clarke even though he's got an 8 AM class

Clarke heaves a sigh of relief when she opens the door to see an apartment lacking in a certain Raven Reyes. She doesn't mean to be insensitive, but for tonight, Clarke could do without Hurricane Reyes sweeping her into its epicenter, gusts of hair curlers, an assortment of mascaras, glittery dresses and heels tall enough to be mini skyscrapers whirling around her.

Clarke all but drags her bag behind her as she trudges towards her room, shoulders slumped and posture absolutely terrible (her mother would probably screech at her to straighten her spine immediately if she were here) before she collapses on her bed. She doesn't even register the slam of the front door as she falls asleep.

#

She wakes to the sound of the shower turning off and a terribly out-of-tune "When Did Your Heart Go Missing?" and groans before sitting up to massage the crick in her neck. She's had the shittiest week at school–Professor Indra had been particularly scathing while grading Clarke's midterm, and Clarke winces at the branded memory of an unsightly blue C, not to mention her mother's poorly-timed announcement of her engagement to Marcus Kane via voicemail. (Voicemail? Really? Clarke thought their crumbling relationship was at least decent enough for a real phone call or even an email. At this point, Abby Griffin was just being petty.)

As she glances at the clock on her desk, a glowing 8:29 blinking back at her, Raven bursts into the room clad in a tight, lacy red dress and a sinister smile. Clarke already knows what Raven's about to say and groans at the thought of going out.

"Clarke, you're gonna shower–I don't know what part of your face your drool hasn't already touched. You're gonna put on the big girl dress I already set on the bathroom counter, you're gonna do your hair and makeup, and you're sure as hell _not_ gonna complain about it because we are gonna have fun tonight." And while Clarke scorns the idea of having to stay up late another night, part of her is happy it's not to slave over another term paper and is ready to stop thinking and unwind, so she showers and washes the dried drool marks on her face (Raven was right, they _were_ everywhere), puts on the shimmering and slinky dirty gold dress Raven set out for her, and smiles at the girl in the mirror staring back at her despite her previous qualms over dressing up and going out for the night because for the first time in a long while, Clarke Griffin looks vibrant.

The girl in the mirror's not the same girl who's had the shittiest week at school, a mother with major communication issues, and drool on her face just an hour ago, no. She's the girl with legs that go on for days, red-stained lips, layers of mascara coating seductive long lashes, and an air of unrestrained confidence (not to be mistaken for haughtiness–if anything, Clarke hated arrogance). She's the heartbreaker, the smart-ass, the girl a man overlooks as a naïve fool who's "just a pretty face" when she could kick his ass in school and on the streets. The girl in the mirror is a queen.

#

Bellamy can't stop staring at the girl in red. Mesmerized by the way she moves, he hasn't taken a sip from his lukewarm beer in, what, five, ten minutes? He has no idea how long he's been staring and he can't stop until Miller nudges him with a wry grin, but then he catches the girl looking back at him with a smile from hell and he can feel his a smirk growing on his own lips. He sets his drink down and offers Miller an almost predatory grin before moving towards the girl with the dark eyes illuminated by the colorful strobe lights streaking across the tightly-packed room.

He's at her side within seconds and his hands touch her hips tentatively, waiting for a nod, a glance, _something_ that'll tell him she wants this too. When he sees the corners of her lips turn up, he presses her against his body and they move to the beat of an overplayed song. The song ends and as the next picks up, she turns to face him and to keep her from walking away, he says, "I'm Bellamy," in an infamous voice that's repeatedly won him many less-than-lonely nights. She parts her lips to say her name, but Bellamy can't be sure because one moment, he's introducing himself and waiting on her to do the same and the next, the girl in the red dress has thrown up on his shoes and a girl in gold whips around and groans before rushing (Bellamy's surprised she's not gingerly teetering, given the fact that she towers on five-or-so-inch heels) over to help the girl who's just about to collapse.

"I told her not to have so many shots of tequila, but did she listen? No, because she was still recovering from the lime!" The light shines on the girl in gold, and she glimmers like a crown from the Byzantine Empire–why is Bellamy thinking about history again?–and she'd be beautiful if it weren't for the tired eyeroll and scowl plastered on her face. Gold dress throws Red dress's arms over her shoulders as Bellamy briefly mourns for his shoes (they were from Octavia, he had every right to lament!).

"Need some help, princess?" he asks rhetorically before picking up Red dress's other arm to place over his shoulders, but the nickname just comes out without thought (but it was fitting, considering his previous thoughts of ancient empires).

"It's Clarke, actually," she grunts, before adding, "and don't degrade a queen by calling her a princess" under her breath (not that that stopped Bellamy from catching it–or chuckling at it, for that matter).

"Sorry, princess," he replies with a grin as they reach the door and make their way outside. He catches her scowling dirtily at him, too.

#

"I'm Bellamy," the guy with the vomit on his shoes says as they search for a cab to flag down.

"Yeah, well, the girl who blew chunks all over your feet is Raven." Clarke says, but upon realizing that her tone was just as scathing as her professor's grading, she recoiled meekly. "Sorry about your shoes," she says awkwardly, "I hope they weren't"–Bellamy already knows she's going to say expensive because he's thinking about her shoes–"of sentimental value, or something," and Bellamy is agape because most would say expensive. Clarke laughs at his expression. "Not that I'm a mind reader or anything. I know a broken heart when I see one, and you had heartbreak written all over your face before you helped me with this one," she nodded her head towards the girl slumped over their shoulders. "Gift?" she asks as Bellamy raises his fingers to his mouth to let out a resounding whistle, successfully hailing a taxi.

"A hundred and first and seventh, please!" Clarke says, crawling into the taxi, as Bellamy pulls a mumbling Raven in. The ride home is quick–Clarke and Raven had walked to Ice Nation, but in Raven's current state, Clarke felt obligated to take a taxi so Bellamy didn't have to help carry her all the way back. After all, he was already doing more than any other guy would have.

"As an apology and a sign of gratitude on behalf of my idiot friend here, where are you headed? I'll pay for your fare and steal from Raven's wallet later," Clarke says as the taxi pulls to the curb of her apartment complex, remembering that Bellamy's got a home to get back to, too.

"Not necessary," Bellamy replies with an easy smile, "and I thought I could help you bring her up? Don't want you to strain yourself," and Clarke protests with great fervor. "Oh, no, you've already done so much, it's fine! I can handle Raven," she pastes a smile on her face even though her shoulders whine.

"Absolutely not, I'll help!" And because at this point Clarke's too tired to argue, she complies, but not without a small but growing pool of suspicion because yes, he was nice enough to help her out with Raven and he didn't throw a shit fit when Raven threw up on his shoes, but that didn't mean he was nice enough to not be a creep of some sort.

It's the wariness that makes Clarke mentally survey her apartment for things that could be used as a weapon as she and Bellamy carry Raven through the lobby and into the elevator. With a worst-case scenario in mind, she discards the small Banksy frames that line the front wall and the "Starry Night" imitation because while their frames would make great assailants, Clarke would attack her own heart in the process. She could try to force Bellamy out with the door, but given his size and build compared to her own, that'd be a downhill battle, so she settles on the umbrellas she and Raven set near the door. Clarke's plan is sound: she'll invite Bellamy inside and if he says no, no harm, no foul. If he says yes, however, her suspicion'll peak and if he pulls one wrong move, she'll pull Raven from his grasp before reaching for an umbrella as fast as she can and batter him incessantly.

They reach her apartment sooner than she's comfortable with, so she reaches for her keys from her clutch as slowly as possible and asks quietly, "Would you like to come inside?", fully prepared to grab an umbrella as the key turns in the lock.

"No, I'm all right, I've got an early class tomorrow anyways. But thanks for the offer, princess." Clarke pushes the door open, a little shocked, and Bellamy picks Raven up. "Where do you want me to put her?"

"Um, down the hall, first room to the left." Clarke is stunned Raven danced with a man who didn't have sinister intentions, considering Raven generally had pretty poor taste in men (but so did Clarke, if she was talking about Finn Collins. She definitely was). "Do you want a coffee, a glass of water or something before you go?" she called out as Bellamy returned, rolling his shoulders back.

"Actually, a water would be pretty nice, thanks" he responded sheepishly before reaching a hand up to rub the back of his neck. Clarke can't help but notice the constant gratitude.

"What're you studying?" she asks mindlessly yet curiously, handing him the glass before collapsing on the couch. "I'm majoring in criminology with a minor in ancient civilizations," he sits beside her and replies pridefully, and a laugh escapes Clarke before she can stop it.

"What's so funny?" he asks, and Clarke would be worried that she'd pissed him off if it weren't for the small smile on his face. "Irony," she admits, and his raised eyebrows suggest he wants to know more, so she figures she owes it to him to expand on her one-word reply.

"I was suspicious of you when you offered to help me take Raven up, so I had this whole plan worked out in my head on how I would react if you said yes and pulled some funny business on Raven or me when I asked if you wanted to come inside." Clarke's confession elicits a full-bodied rise of laughter from Bellamy, and she's more relieved than embarrassed.

"I mean, it's understandable, really," he says as his laughter dies down and he takes on a somber expression. "This whole world is dangerous for women, as you clearly know well. You always have to watch what you say, watch what you wear, watch who you choose to surround yourself with because it's so difficult finding someone who doesn't have bad intentions. And more often than not, you're blamed. It's not fair. I've got a sister who I've had to raise almost since she was born–our mom was raped and that asshole left her for dead in an alley of a bad neighborhood, which is why I feel so compelled to study criminal justice, you know? Because someone has to believe these girls, these women. Someone in the justice system who has the power to make a change has to take a stand for them." There's a lapse in conversation as Clarke soaks in all the unbelievable details she's heard in just a few minutes.

"Wow. Sorry about that," Bellamy chuckles and his cheeks turn pink, and that's when Clarke knows she's found someone she ought to keep. "What are you studying, princess?" Clarke rolls her eyes at his nickname, knowing fully well it's something she won't live it down. "Pre-med," she says, but Bellamy notices the lack of zeal and pride he'd exuded when he replied to her question.

"And what's wrong with pre-med?" He asks as a follow-up question, and her eyes widen slightly. "I didn't say anything was wrong with pre-med."

"Do you really want me to quote you right now? 'I know a broken heart when I see one, and you had heartbreak written all over your face' when you said pre-med. So what's up with that, Clarke?" and seeing as he called her by her name, she could tell he was serious.

"I like pre-med, I do." Clarke confesses. "I like the science, the innovation, helping people, but it's just that science and medicine, they're so..." she didn't quite know how to put it into words, really. She meant it when she said that she liked pre-med and science. Upheld in the Griffin household, it was the religion she was raised on. Abby Griffin lived and breathed working at the hospital, whereas Jake Griffin shifted from the shiny, new, and ever-changing path of science onto the battered, meticulously painted trail of art, encouraging Clarke to be creative and live knowing that anything could be art. But then he died of stage four pancreatic cancer because the doctors caught it too late (and her own mother couldn't even see the signs until her father's sallowness and pallid flesh became features too glaring to go ignored), and as Clarke felt herself drawn more and more towards art, she felt a sense of duty to science, to medicine, knowing that a future in medicine could prevent others from feeling the pain she did when she lost her father.

"Impersonal?" Bellamy offers, and Clarke nods, snaps out of her reflective daze, and realizes that was it. That's how she felt, and knowing the simple word she could now associate with how she felt was relieving.

"Art," she says. "That's what I really wanna study. It's just so liberating and you can't do anything wrong. With medicine, you have someone's life in your hands, someone who means something to someone else and I don't know if I can deal with that, deal with the pressure that comes with being a doctor. Yeah, the human being and all its components are infinitely interesting, but what about Picasso's heart, or Monet's head, or Signac's hands? What about Van Gogh and turbulence? What about Degas and dancers, art and _feeling_ something about the human being that all the science and medicine in the world just can't do justice?"

And that's when Bellamy asks her the most reasonable question to follow her impassioned digression, fit with a perplexed expression: "Why are you studying medicine, then?" So she gave him the short story of how medicine ran in her bloodline and how her father died because his doctor was too blind to the symptoms and caught on too late, how Clarke felt it was her job to make sure no mistakes like that were made again because even when Abby sued for malpractice and won the case, Clarke didn't feel any better. Abby herself was too consumed in her work at the hospital to recognize that her own husband was no longer a healthy man.

Clarke remembers trying to imagine her father's yellowing skin as a vast expanse of stars painted on his skin by Van Gogh himself.

#

Bellamy's stare is unwavering, his eyes a place where empathy and compassion swim freely. He doesn't apologize because she already knows. His gaze snaps away, though, upon receiving a text from Miller ("where are you? don't tell me you're staying over").

"I should probably go," he says quietly as he and Clarke both rise from the couch.

"Oh, god, sorry for keeping you when you've got an early class!" Clarke says, feeling embarrassed that she's kept him here for so long. She takes the empty glass from his hand and walks to the kitchen counter to set it in the sink.

"Don't worry about it, princess, I enjoyed our heart to heart." Bellamy teases, but his smile shows his sincerity. He indicates for her phone with a, "May I?" and Clarke complies, handing him her phone for him to punch in ten digits composing of not just a phone number but a promise of future conversations.

"Text me in the morning so I know Raven's all right, would you?" He asks as he steps outside. Clarke nods before replying, "Are you sure you don't want me to pay for your fare?"

"I don't think that's necessary, considering I live about two blocks away." He grins, and Clarke rolls her eyes as she watches him walk away, his figure disappearing into the elevator and she shuts the door.

Bellamy Blake, she reads on her phone before going to bed.

(Raven wakes up the next morning complaining of "the worst hangover she's ever had in her life" and Clarke texts Bellamy to confirm that Raven is, in fact, okay. She grins when he asks her if she and Raven want to meet him for coffee after his class.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> soooo i was hoping this would be a one-shot but turns out this is more four-shot material oops (but this is me making good on my au/hc for commmanderblake)


End file.
